On Even Ground
by Bonsoir
Summary: FE13. She was just fine on her own, thank-you-very-much, and she could take care of herself and of everyone else around her. So it took her a while to get used to the feelings she had for him.


**Title:** On Even Ground  
**Characters:** Sully/Virion  
**Genre:** Romance  
**Words:** 1,290  
**Notes:** A certain fandom-goer tried to bring me over to the dark side. Blame Natural Frequency for the existence of this short story. First attempt at FE13 so please let me know if anything rings OOC.

* * *

She first knew that there was a problem when she found herself unable to sleep at night—not properly, anyway, because she'd lie there half-dreaming for hours. It was so stupid—such _horse crap_—that she'd be thinking of _him_, of all people, when she was trying to drift off. And worse was that it hindered her sleeping, that she was busy thinking of the way his hair settled across his shoulders, or the curve of muscle in his right arm as he pulled the bowstring taut.

But sometimes it _helped_ to think of him, and that was, by far, the worst of all—that she might feel a little comforted to know he was nearby. Was she really so _weak_ as to _need_—or want—that comfort in her life?

She'd been sleeping just fine for years; she'd never needed some stupid half-remembered touch against her shoulder to help her settle, to make her feel safe.

She was just fine on her own, thank-you-very-much, and she could take care of herself and of everyone else around her. She'd proven it, time and time _again_.

It took her a long time to get used to the feelings she had for him, and even longer to accept them for what they were. A person was only weak if they allowed themselves to believe they were so, and she came to the conclusion that caring about someone didn't necessary make a person weak just because their knees quivered like a good cream pie.

Hell, she thought, judging by the way Robin and Sumia fought together, maybe it could make a person _stronger_.

Sully found that she was lacking in feminine wiles—not that she cared, most of the time—and though she was graceful on the battlefield, she was not particularly artful with words.

Virion always ran circles around her with them.

So for a while, she let it go: a few weeks, a month, two months. In the end, she couldn't keep her mouth shut.

She knew what she wanted, and the worst that would happen would be that he'd shy away from her, tell her he'd not meant to mislead her—though in the flowery, hoity-toity language that he often weaved like a basket around him. She had strong suspicions that he used words for the same reason she used a shield: protection.

But from what? Was he afraid that someone might take him seriously? She could appreciate a cheerful fellow, and confidence was always attractive, but sometimes those things felt false, and when she'd confronted him with a hardened stare—and nothing else—for five straight minutes, she saw him for, well, himself, she supposed.

Imperfect. Different.

Maybe not the type of man that others wanted him to be.

A man who had tried, a man who had lost, regardless of the terms of the fight.

A man who kept moving forward despite his own misgivings, despite his own remorse or even regret.

She could respect that. And she needed someone who would respect her, too—respect that she was, well, herself.

Imperfect. Different.

Maybe not the type of woman that others wanted her to be.

A woman who had tried, a woman who had lost, regardless of the terms of the fight.

A woman who would throw herself between the point of a lance and the back of someone she cared about without any hesitation, not because she had to or because they needed her to, but because she wanted to.

And, she thought, brushing back his hair as he lay sleeping, his head against her shoulder as they sat beneath a sturdy young oak tree, he could respect that about her, like nobody else had before.

Solid footing on even ground.

She smiled.

"Hey Ruffles," she said, and shifted her shoulder to try and wake him from his nap.

She expected a, "Yes, Sully dear?" or something more Virion-esque, with a lot of stupid frilly nicknames or comparisons, but all she got was a quiet, murmured breath of air across her neck as he shifted, bringing his arm up to rest on her waist.

She just grinned to herself, rolling her eyes, and tried again, threatening, "If you don't wake up right now, I'll get Cherche to loan me Minerva."

Almost immediately, she felt his head tilt, his lips brush against her throat. "Ah, what fortune to wake to the vision my dearly beloved Sully presents," he murmured, sitting up and smiling at her with a look she knew all too well.

"Not _now_," she said, roughly, but smiled despite herself. "And stop spouting nonsense, you see me every day."

"Tis no matter," he protested, as he got to his feet and offered her a hand up, a hand which she had learned to accept. "The sight of your radiant face shall ne'er grow tiresome to me."

Once she was to her feet, he put a hand to her back to steady her, and she glanced down to see her half-rounded stomach. "Say, Ruffles?" she asked, rubbing it a little. "This is such a bad time, isn't it?"

"No," he said with a tender smile, his hand covering hers. "Our daughter will have us both to watch over and protect her."

"Daughter?" Sully asked. "You think you know more than I do 'bout babies?"

He raised both hands in a placating gesture. "No indeed, my lovely wife. Perhaps it is selfish of me to wish for it, but I do cherish the idea of a beautiful little girl in your image with, hmm, perhaps _my_ nose."

She made a face. "I like your hair," she said. "No daughter of mine should be cursed to be a redhead if she can help it."

"Ah, a brilliant idea!" he said, and bent to pick up his bow from the ground. "Skilled, no doubt, at everything, being born of the two of us, yes?"

"Or skilled at nothing and loved just the same," was her answer, and she moved toward the encampment before her husband could argue with her about it, though of course he would agree that love was more important than anything—that a child not shown love would grow up confused and scared and maybe even hurt; Lucina's friends were enough proof of that.

She had to twist out of the way as Sumia wandered by carrying a heavy stack of books—_that_ could be a disaster!—but once she was in the large tent she shared with Virion, she sat down with a sigh. "Hey, Ruffles," she said as he ducked under the tent flap.

"Yes, milady?" He had gotten a little better at being frank with her, which was a relief. Especially now, she didn't have the energy to think too much about the things he said.

"If you cook tonight," she offered, "I'll work the kinks out of your shoulders."

He brightened, instantly. He loved it when she paid him attention, physical or emotional, and he knew she wasn't pregnant enough yet to prohibit any intimacy between them.

And she loved it when she didn't have to cook.

So it always worked out, in the end, between them.

"You need only speak what your palate requires, my dear," he said, eagerly.

She grinned. "I don't care, but right now," she said, and grabbed his cravat, pulling him toward her, "I want a kiss."

He dropped his bow to the ground, startled, which made her chortle in amusement before she kissed him—a kiss short but full of feeling, feelings she wasn't always very graceful at expressing in words, not like he was.

He laughed when she pulled away, and touched her hair. "I know," he said softly, brilliantly, even plainly. "I love you, too."


End file.
